Call and Blossom
by Silvara
Summary: [Galdrar collection] The plaid wouldn't be very thick but he would make sure the tie never gave. The decorations couldn't be rich or numerous, but-but dried flowers and thin leaves sounded like a good start. Gratuitous Laguz Lore of the Lupine and Avian kind with fluff aplenty. —A Prequel may features in the 2nd chapter.


_Cover discalmer: The covers belongs to Nintendo or Intelligent Systems_

In the first year of Rafiel's arrival at the city, it had not been a surprise for the prince to find himself faced with many questions as soon as his health became stable. The longest discussion he entertained had been with its queen. For all he knew about wolf laguz, Queen Nailah was an especially good listener. Her soothing voice and strong presence kept him from thinking too much about past events out of his grasp.

He had suspected, as most of her court did, that her title wouldn't allow for pleasantries very long, though.

He had tried to be ready for the day when another would come in her stead and he would never see her least on her throne, from afar. At first without realizing it, and then more and more consciously, he began to dilute his answers in order to keep her interest lit.

Sadly, in too short a time, they had discussed Beorc, Branded, Wolf and Heron laguz. From body language to laws, manners, and when every other thing was said, mating rituals. Before long it became fair to say that Nailah and him knew more of each other's clans than many commoners even did of their own. Her eyes never failed to shine whenever she could learn something new about the peoples of Tellius. This, among many other things made many a discussion with her very pleasant.

By then, he had heard and felt enough from her mind and heart, to learn what could catch her fancy and how to please her in tiny, inconsequential ways. Using his clan's senses for personal motives on someone who couldn't suspect it wouldn't have been very comfortable for him... But despair and need had induced it back then... He couldn't bring himself to regret the results themselves.

He closed his eyes and gently pushed the memory away.

After one year, he still didn't understand how Nailah kept finding time to spend alone with him. Especially when he had neither a position not a title to his name. And so, as hours became months, even though her apparitions at his door—once at his window even—remained constant; each of them was always a pleasant surprise.

Time had flew and diluted in his memory, none very different from the steam that poured from her huge lapis-lazuli water pipe... He used to spend most of his time in her smocking room; if not singing, then practicing on the art of storytelling: history and tales sometimes blending together in the wee hours of the night. Hatarians valued storytelling. Enough so the art was regarded as a respectable occupation in the city. And thus it had been without more ado that he found his first position in her palace. No one dared to question the time they passed together as he entertained the queen in this fashion. Evenings succeeded to one another in that same manner, some seldom straightening into nights.

That much was not the case with her attendance to the public baths. It would have been improper for her to share a warmed bath with someone of his status when other sheiks and nobles could be invited instead. And so, she began to bring her favorite retainer and favorite bodyguard whenever they attended to the baths.

Azika was a petite beorc who had unfortunately the same liking for gossip that Nailah's most reliable servants all seemed to share, but she was young and just imaginative enough that few among the wolves would heed her words. Volug, on the other end, was a Wolf. He had long been among her most loyal and resourceful guards, and his name easily came up to Nailah when the need to chose the two had arisen.

At first it had been uncomfortable to have someone standing close but never interacting—because he had heard the wolf speak with other retainers and to occasionally answer Nailah. Yet, Rafiel had only met nods and silence from Volug since they had crossed paths for the Wolf Queen's company. So the Heron had mentally rewinded all the possible things he could have done to annoy a wolf. But after he found none, he had been forced to learn to ignore it just like Nailah seemed to do.

In the midst of their company, he was just another attendant instead of a guest; a position that had allowed him to trail behind Nailah in almost any political circle.

Before long the soft movements of the queen's chest, reclined on the largest cushions he had ever seen, across from the water pipe had become the measure giving rhythm to his evenings, his days; his life. Just like the echoes of her mind and the colors of her spirit had evolved into the most precious things that were to his heart.

Through small and bigger trials, their bond grew steadily, albeit devoid of passion; it was nourished by a deep fondness and an unconditional trust, got stronger still by the day; until he realized that he could hardly sleep anymore if she was too far from him.

Then, a new season came.

.*

He was walking almost aimlessly the day when he stumbled upon grown fields of wheat. Yet, as soon as he saw the rich sheaves, he walked before thinking and seized some stalks.

A smile slowly etched itself on his face at the idea of tying a nest.

It would be so simple to do.

He could imagine placing the wheat crown on the desk in her study, or a cushion of her smocking room... It was not as conventional as putting one at the edge of a bed, but still, much less flamboyant and audacious than setting it on her throne (though the idea was amusing).

Smile growing, he caressed the golden strands fondly, thoughts filling with the best manner to weave them for his queen.

Every straw crown was different, though not due to the tastes of their recipient. Before all, a nest was expected to reflect the identity of the male and what he could offer.

Not much in his case.

Still, before he realized it, some traitorous part of his brain has already designed an arrangement. The plaid wouldn't be very thick but he would make sure the tie never gave. The decorations he would choose could not be too rich anymore, but it was better than an overweight nest anyway. Old green flowers and golden leaves. Some thread of blue too. If he had never united before, his eye color would have been used instead. (... No. He-he was beyond that point, past poisonous hopes and aimless guilt.)

He focused on the wheat.

If he made it according to tradition, he would have to dress in the same deep color, altering the shades slightly, for variety. Hair would have to be waxed and uplifted on a support...most commonly fanned in intricate twists or arranged in multiple buns.

Once they were accordingly dressed up, lords were expected to meet the place that had been chosen by flying low and slow, without hovering, before they would rise and pique down to land on their mark. Then only could they proceed like everyone else to sing the call to their dame. (To his grateful surprise, he barely felt a shadow of regret when remembering the flight.)

The call of one of a noble bloodline was expected to concentrate some measure of enchantment, though—not as much as to make it in a galdr, yet distinctive from any simpler song.

Once nests were used and galdrar sung, he recalled, still arranging the heaps of wheat in his mind; no amount of nobility could prevent lords' hair from becoming a mess for the rest of the day...hair that was immediately spotted from miles away by bored youngsters looking for an occasion to sing mischief. _Well_ he wouldn't have to worry about that _this_ time, he reasoned as a smile he had not noticed slowly faded from his face.

He considered how the whole would look and hesitated. It was also proper for a noble to embody a family gem matching the colors of his robes in the plaid before knotting it.

...He-he wasn't a noble anymore, was he?

Not that it really mattered of course. In any case, it would be persistent, if not simply inappropriate. If he was to offer the wolfess a new beginning with him, doing so by the tradition of his clan alone would be egocentric. Even if all herons had been killed or enslaved, he was not on the side of the desert where it mattered. The kingdom of Hatari had a people of survivors. United by a common peril, they had been forced to focus on the living, on the future since rising feelings of loss only amounted to making needless baggage for the whole community.

...He tried to follow their example.

Yet, in more ways than he cared for, he was still a guest among them; an idiosyncratic presence. If not a lost ghost, neither required nor unpleasant; just harmless, weightless...

By the most powerful figures, he was tolerated, if only for his songs and otherwise quietness. Or at least that was what reached him from the train of thoughts of most of the /sheiks/ that came to pay respect and tribute to the queen.

For wolves, not belonging to a pack meant no chance of success in anything, and more often than not, not being worthy of the breath of a word. (He was not so sure about Volug, though. The young wolf's mind was too clear and silent to betray anything. For all Rafiel knew, his refusal to communicate could just have been a trait of his character.)

Beorcs and Branded were more patient, willing to spend time on politeness, and he was glad for it.

Still...they were so different.

He would never again connect directly, heart to heart and mind to mind with another, without the need of words. Or even without the ever present feelings of inadequacy requiring constant explanations. Sometimes, trying to relate with words alone felt too demanding for the heron, leaving him sucked dry of his energy, reluctant to leave the warm comfort of his bed.

By any way, with every eye set on the throne of Hatari, there was no time left for headless courting when Nailah did her best to keep him out of attention from both beorc courtesans and the head circle of her /beetapaik/.

He opened his hand to let the top of the wheat sheaves caress his palm in a silent flutter, making sure not to bruise the stash of the grains because of unrequited hope.

.*

The evening Nailah entered the Heron's room with nothing but jewels on her body, all thoughts about wheat and flowers flew from Rafiel's mind, along with the rest of the world. She strode completely naked with a casual grace that made it look like something that she did every day.

When she came to stand by his bed with a stare burning ember in his eyes, and the heron didn't dare to breathe, afraid of breaking a spell. Another, most basic part of him saw only her tail, ears, _fangs_ and made him feel as if he was the most exposed of them two.

Before he realized that she carried something, she broke eye contact to set a package on his pillow. Trailing up the powerful yet soft outline of her arm, he found a crown of rich wheat sheaves set on the top, the heron felt as if he had been struck by a lightning tome. Lips ajar, suspended in silence, his eyes grew to two green orbs.

As soon as he remembered how to use his arms, he jolted a little and made sure that his clothes were away from the wheat crown.

"Th-this..." he stuttered, wings open and taut, readied to flee, "Is it a...nest?" He didn't trust his eyes enough to lift them on her.

For a while, he felt an uncharacteristic impulse to hide behind sarcasm pass in her mind. But she bravely swept it away and nodded.

"Yes."

This word, in her gallant voice, cut thought his thoughts like butter, leaving him barely able to process her next ones.

"I decided to come to you instead," she added up. "It seemed wise to skip the singing and I have no idea of the appropriate song," It was the first time that he heard her babble. He felt his eyes water, his tongue growing heavy and dry in his mouth the more he fumbled with his native language to find appropriate words. Surprise, pride, sadness, gratefulness, grief and joy melted into raw emotion in his eyes.

He peered down at the wheat crown, trying to blink unshed tears, his febrile fingers shaking silently.

Black, red and golden silk ribbons, all breaded into a thick plaid of rich wheat sheaves; a simple yet tantalizing design. How much the crown resembled her forced some respect...could it be that she really tied it so perfectly from her first attempt?

His senses caught the stray memories in her mind before he could stop them and he fought to hide a fond smile. Eyelids covering his troubled eyes, his fingers dug into the mattress as he found himself torn, heart thundering against his eardrums for action; anything, _preferably positive_... Yet, did she understand the ritual?

The need to make sure that she didn't merely seek companionship was just as strong and much more desperate than the instincts that pressed him. There was no place for doubt nor casualness; for a night, a decade, or even a century; a closer relationship simply would not work...

"A..." his voice swayed a little but he forced himself to focus, "a nest...stands a lifetime," he finished hesitantly as he surveyed her.

"I know." When he barely blinked she elaborated, "I couldn't desire anything more, Rafiel."

As soon as he broke out of his haze, he minutely raised to lay on his back, resting his head on the wheat crown.

 _'Covering the nest in a dignified manner'_ couldn't feel more petty a requirement there and now, while he was still struggling to keep his smile from tearing his face apart. _And yet..._

Heart on the tip on his tongue, pressed by joy and its old shadow of guilt, Rafiel fought down tears and fiercely focused on the present. The Queen embraced him, following her descent to his lips. With more than enough time to answer or refuse her embrace, he grabbed her hair and pulled her down before he could mind himself.

It was only fortunate that Nailah—no, that _his mate-to-be_ (a goofy smile etched itself, futher cracking his shell of grief, lighting his chest on an almost indecent joy) that she remembered that breathing was still a basic life function for all laguz.

His Queen drew back, trapping his will under the intensity of her gaze, and he waited just long enough for them to claim air before grabbing her lips again with stubborn determination. She sled a hand under his neck to slip the cumbersome wheat from under his head. But as soon as his senses felt her design, he stopped her.

"You can't move the nest," he said, so very serious.

Something in his sight and voice made her imagine the two of them in a real nest and it felt so irrational that she had to bite her lip to keep from erupting in laughter. She remembered something he had said long ago about _moving unused nests,_ and she had to blink to make sure that the situation was real.

When he was sure that she would not try to move it again, he let amusement reach his eyes at the inconsistent picture her mind conjured.

"Well...even it doesn't incommode you, it's going to knot itself in your hair and might unravel..."

"It's natural that a nest shall be made a little messy," he said, eyes riveted on hers and she blinked again, before the ghost of a smile curved her lips.

"As you wish, my dear."

.*

"I hope that you understand," Nailah breathed almost an hour later and with mock gravity, "that I still have no intention to sing." The vibration of her voice coursed along his neck and on his senses while his fingers played around the beads of her jewels.

"Well then..." he proposed, careful, "perhaps—perhaps I can sing for both of us?"

When she grew hesitant as she considered it, he lifted a hand to rub gentle circles against the round of her shoulder.

"Even if they heard, they should not understand. And I have seen you lock every door and window."

For once, his traditions being poorly known would prove useful, he thought, trying to recall all he could of the galdr's lyrics.

Nailah struggled with herself for a while before she accepted the risk with a cautious nod.

His heart loved on in a cloud, his voice rose to fill and echo in all of the room with vibrant stanzas, and he watched the face of his queen gradually relax into a rare dreamy expression.

.*

"The first song is the _Calling_...in both name and purpose," the prince explained later. "The second was a Galdr: _Blossom_."

 _I see,_ she thought, somewhat occupied with the fit alabaster curves of his slim chest, narrow waist... _What are the effects?_

As soon as she asked, he fidgeted. She had observed his mannerisms long enough to see his discomfort even without looking at him.

"Fertility", the heron eventually answered, a smile lilting his voice with irony.

The wolfess's mind went silent for a while. It was too premature a topic to brush—especially because of its sheer impossibility.

Then she squeezed her mate's shoulder.

 _Good then. The wheats shall recover from my slaughter._

 _A/N:_ _I'd be happy to get your comment, polite critique welcome._


End file.
